Then she realized that he had continued to touch her at every possible moment and opportunity since this morn when she left his embrace. A kiss on the hand. His hand on her waist as they walked. His thigh against hers. The heated whispering in her ear.
And then there was the dance.
Christian surprised her by asking her to join him as the musicians played a lively tune. As they moved through the intricate steps of the dance, she realized that she had never seen him dance before. When she mentioned it, he replied that since fighting was simply a dance, his trainers had insisted he master the art of dance.
But his touches throughout were not part of the dance she’d learned. His arm brushed her breasts several times as he turned her. And he had held her much closer than necessary during the lift, causing her body to slide down his as he placed her back on her feet. With her hands bracing on his shoulders, she looked down into his eyes and a most disturbing desire raced through her. She wanted him to hold her like this when they were both naked. She wanted to feel his heated skin against hers.
Emalie shook her head, trying to break the reverie. Although she could break out of the scandalous thoughts, her body had reacted to them already. Her increasingly sensitive breasts swelled against the constraints of her clothing and sweat trickled between them, and down her back. Tiny tremors moved through her and settled deep, making an unfamiliar ache begin and strengthen.
Her attempts to be discreet in her discomfort were unsuccessful, for Christian turned back to her with his full attentions.
“I have been neglecting you, my lady,” he said as he slid closer to her stool. “Here, let me serve you.”
She must be losing her mind. His emphasis on the word “serve” sent more chills through her and she would swear he meant so much more than simply helping with the wine.
He held the goblet to her lips when she sipped and then placed his own mouth where hers had been. Entranced, she watched as he licked his lips to catch an errant drop of wine. Her breath caught when he looked at her mouth as though he would do the same to her lips. She was still reaching for her napkin when he speared a morsel of roasted pigeon from their shared trencher and held it out to her.
Instead of placing it before her, he held it just beyond her mouth. Then he stared into her eyes as he moved it closer and closer. Just when it was about to reach her lips, he slid it over them and then slipped it inside. She closed her eyes against the intensity she saw in his gaze and chewed. With the heat and tension building between them, she found it impossible to swallow.
“Here, my lady. A sip to ease its way.”
The cup’s rim was warm now from both of their mouths and she drank as he offered.
This was insanity. She fought to control the urge to beg for his touch as she had that other night he came to her room with seduction in mind. Was this also a seduction? Did he deliberately warm her and train her to his touch like a falcon in the mews is trained?
Damn her, it was working. For with each touch or kiss or warm breath against her skin, she wanted more. And damn him, she could tell by his knowing gaze that he was aware of her reactions.
Suddenly he leaned back and held out his arm to her. Standing as she placed her arm on his, he spoke to their hosts.
“My lady and I thank you for your gracious meal and entertainment. Until tomorrow…”
With a nod of his head to Lord Durwyn, and with no other words, he led her away from the table and out of the hall. When Alyce moved to join them, he waved her off.
“I will attend to my lady, Alyce.”
“Aye, my lord,” Alyce answered, curtsying.
“And come not in the morning until I call you,” he added as they passed by her.
Emalie could not argue or question, for anticipation filled her. If her maid said aye or nay, she knew not. Emalie only knew that he would join with her when they reached their room. And that made her even more breathless. Her body was heated and throbbing already, for his deliberate touches and teasing had done that.
She did not think it, but they seemed to race up the stairs and down the hall to their chamber. He let go of her hand only to drop the bar on the door, and then he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her.
It was a kiss that promised, a kiss that teased, a kiss that added only more heat and wetness to her. His tongue touched her lips and slipped in her mouth and she could taste the wine they had shared and she could taste him. His arms encircled her and his hands reached into her hair, pulling the coif and veils from it. Soon he had slid his fingers into her hair and freed it from the braids Alyce had made so diligently. And his mouth never left hers.
Over and over they kissed until they were both gasping for breath. He lifted his lips only to take a breath and then he plunged inside her mouth again. His hands still played in her hair, holding her close. After minutes or hours or days—she could not tell any longer—he released her mouth and stepped back.
“I will play lady’s maid, Emalie. Let me help with these.”
He reached out and began unlacing her long sleeves from the place they attached to her overtunic. His movements were slow and always he kept his hands on her. Once untied, he slid the sleeves from her shoulders, down her arms until they dropped on the floor. Still touching her, he moved his hands over her arms, onto her shoulders and neck.
“Here now. Turn this way and I will see to your tunic.”
Although she hesitated to turn from him, he guided her until she faced the fire and he was at her back. His hands moved down her back, tugging and loosening the laces until he reached the base of her spine where the dress opened. Before she could reach up to lift the tunic, he slipped his hands in from behind and pushed it from her shoulders. As the tunic fell, he skimmed over her hips and waist, her belly and breasts. Although she still wore her shift, it did nothing to lessen the sensations he caused as he touched her.
He stepped closer behind her and pulled at the laces that closed her shift in the front. His breath against her neck was hot and she felt the muscles of a man, of a warrior, at her back. All about him was hard, except for his touch. She could not help it when her head dropped back against him. He kissed her neck as he bared her to the fire and to him.
Then he began his tormenting, for he lifted her arms over her head and slid his fingertips down until he reached her shoulders. His path moved lower onto the fullness of her breasts, which ached and swelled, their tips tightened even more by his approach. His fingers moved with a feathery touch, teasing the nipples, tickling the skin and then he moved on, his path ever downward.
The muscles in her stomach tightened as he made his touch heavier, now using his hands to follow the contours of her body. He stopped just as he reached the hair at the juncture of her thighs. She waited for him to feel between them, to find the wetness he had caused, but he did not. Instead she felt his hands on her thighs and she let them open for his touch.
And he did not.
When her body trembled in readiness and in anticipation and in need, he began his efforts anew. This time, her knees buckled when he grazed the springy hair between her thighs. Taking pity on her, Christian turned her in his arms and took her mouth in searing kisses that claimed her as his own.
The feeling of being naked against him, even clothed as he still was, was intoxicating, but she wanted to feel him.
“My lord,” she whispered when he finally released her mouth. “Your clothes?”
Faster than she could have imagined, he took a step away and undressed himself. He did not bother with laces or finesse, but he accomplished his task in the shortest amount of time that she thought possible. Then she truly lost her breath at the sight of this man before her, for he in no way resembled the man she remembered from the bath.
He had not only healed, he had added muscle and weight until he now resembled the warrior mentioned by the queen. His shoulders were broad and his chest rippled under her gaze. She looked further and saw that the muscles continued in his arms and, when she fina
lly dared, his thighs. Although she tried not to stare, another part of his anatomy was well formed, too. She looked quickly back at his eyes, which were laughing at her.
“Now we are even, Emalie.”
“Not even, my lord,” she whispered as she glanced once more below his waist. “You appear to be much bigger…”
She never finished her words. He gathered her close and kissed her again. This time, with their skin touching, she felt something within her coil tighter and tighter. She began to imitate his touch and glided her hands over his back and shoulders and down below his hips. He was hard everywhere.
He pulled her toward the bed and they tumbled onto it. Now she could wrap around him as she wanted to, for he had positioned her on top of him. Doing so placed his manhood right under the most heated part of her. It lasted for a few seconds. Christian rolled her under him and then lifted his head.
She was ready to beg him to finish this, but he kissed her gently and then looked into her eyes.
“Be my wife?” he asked gruffly.
“I am your wife, my lord.”
“As you promised? Only mine?”
Then she realized what he wanted. He wanted to consummate their marriage vows.
“Only yours, my lord,” she promised.
“Only mine,” he growled, entering her and joining with her so quickly and completely that she gasped. When he began to pull back, she entwined their legs so he could not leave her.
There was no stopping or slowing after that. Christian’s every movement was a claim on her, as a woman and as his wife. He touched her everywhere as they moved together in the dance of passion. The powerful strokes built the tension within her until wave after wave of pleasure and release was upon her. After a few more thrusts, Christian held himself still within her and groaned out his own release.
After a few moments of quiet, he rolled onto his side, this time keeping himself inside her. She thought mayhap she dozed off to sleep. Soon though, Christian began his efforts again and this time their passion was slower and, if possible, even more agonizingly pleasurable than the first time. The third time felt simply decadent and different once again and finally took them to the edge of sleep.
As she nodded off, she heard him repeat the words he’d said throughout the night and she felt comforted somehow by the claim inherent in them.
“Only mine.”
The next days went too quickly. Although Fayth was the bride, ’twas Emalie who felt like the newly wedded woman, blushing furiously at the bawdy comments and exploring the physical side to marriage. Her husband was her constant companion and they shared many a touch and caress and many, many kisses. He left her side to go on Durwyn’s hunts and on the various tours, but he always made her feel, well, reclaimed on his return.
After Fayth and Sir Hugh left for his family’s home, Emalie and Christian left for theirs. The trip home was completely different from the one there. She and her husband were so wrapped up in each other that she hardly noticed the passing of time or the miles traveled.
Once back in Greystone, she knew that their behavior was the subject of much discussion from their noble attendants to the servants in the kitchen. One and all noticed the change between them and Emalie was truly glad for it. She thought that he had fulfilled her dreams once he had accepted her back into her duties, but she was wrong. For now that he had staked his claim on her, body and soul, she flourished within their marriage as an equal to him. In only one aspect was there any degree of uncertainty and that was the babe that grew within her.
He was careful of her, whether they were traveling in the village or he was making passionate love to her. Always, he took care of her and made certain of her comfort over his. But he never asked about the babe or discussed it with her.
Christian was not outside the normal bounds with this. Most men never concerned themselves with their offspring; it was the wife’s responsibility. In most marriages when the offspring was of the father, it made sense. In this one, she supposed, it made even more.
The weeks of summer turned to autumn and as the whole of Greystone prepared for the approach of winter, Emalie felt the touch of fear in her soul. Something was coming their way. Something malevolent. Something powerful that could destroy her and the man she knew now she loved and all that they worked for.
She prayed more, in the chapel every morning and evening, and heard the Mass as often as possible. Although most around her thought she worried over the babe’s safe delivery, she did not. She prayed that Christian would forgive her when he discovered the truth about the babe and for drawing him into the Plantagenets’ game.
Chapter Eighteen
The guards alerted him that visitors approached. Climbing to the ramparts of the keep, Christian watched the small party as they left the woods behind and came ever closer to his gates. His hair whipped around his face as he tried to discern their identity. He looked at the knight next to him, who shook his head. The group was still too far.
Although only November, the winds foretold of an early and harsh winter ahead. The villeins and serfs had redoubled their efforts to make necessary repairs and all in Greystone worked to prepare for the worst.
The entourage turned onto the road leading to the gate and ’twas then he noticed the royal banner. The three golden Plantagenet lions, lying passant guardant on a field of red—Richard’s new coat of arms. But it could be any of the royal family members traveling under that flag.
The riders moved too fast for it to be Eleanor. The king was too busy regaining control of his lands on the Continent to journey to England now. That left only one of Henry’s royal get.
Prince John.
“I suppose he has had enough of kissing his brother’s royal arse?” Luc asked dryly. “They fight and forgive at an alarming rate.”
“But their forgiveness extends not past their bloodlines. The rest of us are held to pay for our misjudgments.”
Christian turned and spit in the dirt. That was how his father had lost all.
“You should greet him, Chris. He takes offense at the little gestures.”
“I suppose I must. And Emalie will have heard of their approach by now. We should greet him together.”
“Fatin will not be in attendance, my lord.”
Christian stopped and looked at his friend. “Why not?”
“I have heard too many stories of his coveting other men’s wives to allow her in his presence.”
Christian nodded, realizing that Fatin’s exotic appearance and earthly sexuality would draw John’s attention like a fly to honey. He did not blame Luc for trying to protect her from the prince’s lust, for what John wanted, John took. It did not matter if that was a woman, a castle or riches. And mere men could not naysay the Plantagenet prince.
“Unfortunately, Emalie must greet him, but I will send her to her chambers. She has been feeling ill of late.” Emalie was never sick, but if this would ease the way for her to be freed from her attendance on John and his entourage, he would use it.
“Very good, my lord. They pass under the gate now—we should go.”
Christian left the parapet and made his way to the great hall. As he expected, Emalie was there, directing servants to prepare refreshments and rooms for the arriving guests. If she knew who visited, she gave no indication. She smiled when she noticed him watching and held out her hand to him.
“Visitors, my lord.”
“I saw them from the battlements and came to greet them.”
They walked in front of the raised dais and waited there. He thought it would be best to inform her of who her guests were.
“A royal visitor arrives.”
Emalie looked at him. “Eleanor?”
He shook his head. “I could not see clearly, but I believe it to be John.”
Her shaking could be felt where her hand lay on his arm. He looked at her, but she would not meet his gaze. Even her breathing changed and he was concerned over the differences in her. As he watched the visitors
come closer, she seemed to regain her composure.
“What business does he have here, my lord?” she asked.
“I know not, but we will find out soon. Ah, my lord,” he said, bowing before the prince. “Welcome to Greystone.”
“Dumont,” John said, nodding his head. “I thank you for your welcome.” John stepped nearer to Emalie and reached for her hand. “Countess, you look well. And enceinte? Charming!”
Christian watched as John bent to kiss Emalie’s hand. He could feel her reluctance to his touch.
“My lord, what brings you here?” Better to find out sooner than later.
“I bring greetings from my brother the king and my mother, who could not visit.”
Knowing Richard’s preference for Anjou, Aquitaine and Poitou, Christian doubted the king would ever visit his English kingdom again. Eleanor traveled to wherever she wanted whenever she chose.
“Look, William. Not only is the countess as beautiful as ever—” John spoke louder and waved to one of the men in his retinue “—she is bountiful as well!”
A large man, about his own age, dressed all in black and gray, came forward out of the group and nodded. Emalie trembled again. Something was not right. Christian noticed that Alyce had appeared at Emalie’s side and Walter was standing close by, as well.
“Emalie, my dear,” he said. “My felicitations on your fertility. William, what say you?”
“My lady,” William said, “how do you fare?”
At first, the man’s eyes were hostile and angry, but when he gazed at Emalie they softened with a concern that was not appropriate for another man’s wife. For his wife. He watched as William’s gaze swept downward and fixed on her growing belly.
The Dumont Bride Page 17
